


Thankful

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: During Canon, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-12
Updated: 2007-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:53:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Every year, Sam tries to get Dean to say what he's thankful for, and every year, he fails miserably. Dean's had enough. (Translation: porn! With a Thanksgiving theme.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Thankful  
Author: Impertinence  
Rating: Adult  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Summary: Every year, Sam tries to get Dean to say what he's thankful for, and every year, he fails miserably. Dean's had enough. (Translation: porn! With a Thanksgiving theme.)  
Notes: [ ](http://estrella30.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://estrella30.livejournal.com/)**estrella30** asked for it, and offered a bribe to whoever'd do it. So here I am. *g*  
  
  
  
||  
  
It starts when Sam's in first grade.  
  
“My teacher said on Fanksgiving we gotta say what we're fankful for,” he announces proudly over the turkey sandwiches they're scarfing down. “I'm fankful that Daddy didn't run over the puppy in our driveway. What 'bout you, Dean?”  
  
Dean blinks and takes another huge bite of his sandwich; Dad grunts and gulps down his Coke.  
  
Sam slumps back into his seat glumly.  
  
||  
  
When Dean's eighteen, he saves Sam from a possessed Thanksgiving turkey wielding a poison meat fork.  
  
“'m kinda glad you were there,” Sam mutters, and passes out.  
  
||  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
“ _Fuck_ no.”  
  
“Deeaaan,” Sam whines as they pass yet another Thanksgiving-themed display in the grocery store. “It's an American tradition!”  
  
“Which is why we're not doing it,” Dean snaps, buying a huge bag of leftover Halloween candy just to be contrary. “And anyway, it's stupid. Fucking oversharing Dr. Phil-loving freaks.”  
  
Sam winces but leaves the subject alone.  
  
||  
  
Sam pushes Dean against the wall of the motel room and kisses him. “I'm thankful you pulled me out,” he says, sliding his hand down and cupping Dean's ass. “I'm thankful you're here.”  
  
Dean just groans and shakes his head. He can't even figure out if he's pulling Sam closer or pushing him away.  
  
||  
  
It's the Monday before Thanksgiving; Dad's been dead one month and three weeks.  
  
“You're gonna do it again this year, aren't you?”  
  
Sam cracks a smile. “Maybe.”  
  
“Jesus. When're you gonna get it into your head that I don't _do_ that touchy-feely hold-hands-and-sing bullshit?” Dean cranks up Ted Nugent, as if for emphasis.  
  
“When you admit that I'm the light of your life,” Sam says sarcastically. “And when you just _do_ it already. Everyone has something to be thankful for, Dean!”  
  
Dean doesn't answer.  
  
||  
  
On Thanksgiving they go to McDonald's, because Dean is a jerk. They're sitting there eating Big Macs when Sam decides that he's had enough.  
  
“You know what?” he says angrily.  
  
Dean winks at the girl he's been staring at, oblivious.  
  
Sam kicks him hard. “You. Know. What.”  
  
“Damn it! You fucking _bastard._ ” He finally looks over. “What.”  
  
“I'm thankful for you,” Sam says firmly, ignoring the way Dean's eyes begin to roll, “because you're always there. Hell, Dean—I went off to _college_ for four years, but somehow, every time I failed a test or got dumped, you were there, punching my arm and callin' me a dork. I'm thankful for the stupid fucking car, because it's home to me. More of a home than my apartment ever was. I'm thankful for your idiotic music, because you only ever smile anymore when you're singing along. I'm thankful for the underwear you bought me last week. I'm thankful for your moronic hero complex. I'm thankful for your hair gel. I'm thankful for the fact that you bought me my first condoms before Dad even thought I was having sex. But most of all, Dean—most of all—”  
  
He pulls Dean forward and kisses him angrily, roughly, biting his lower lip and fucking Dean's mouth with his tongue.   
  
Dean shoves him away, and Sam can't stop himself—he laughs.  
  
“I'm thankful for _this_ ” he says.  
  
Dean very slowly, very deliberately, puts his sandwich down. Then—still slowly, deliberately—he gets his coat and, ignoring the stares of everyone in McDonald's, walks out, never once looking back.  
  
||  
  
The bastard took the car.  
  
_Well, fuck you too_ , Sam thinks, scowling.  
  
Luckily, it's only a few miles to the motel, and they're in Kentucky, which isn't exactly freezing. Of course, with his luck, there'll be a lynch mob waiting round the corner.  
  
It's not like he planned that little exhibition, or anything. Right up until he'd done it, he'd only decided to bug Dean about the whole being thankful thing, same as he does every year. But this year—Dad's gone, and Sam can't help but wonder if Dean thinks he's got anything to be thankful for.  
  
God, he hopes so. There's been too much loss this year for Dean to go, too—physically or mentally.  
  
The walk back to their room is just long enough for Sam to work himself into a semi-panic over the whole thing. What if Dean's just decided to leave? Not for forever, of course, because Dean wouldn't do that, but—for the night? Sam's had normal shoved into his face so many times that the thought of having a Thanksgiving without even any family nearby makes him feel almost sick.  
  
And that's the rub, isn't it? That no matter how much Thanksgiving always sucks for him—and he's had some pretty bad Thanksgivings, all things considered—Dean's always there. He can't imagine a major event—Christmas, Thanksgiving, whatever—without Dean.  
  
The motel's parking lot is empty; Sam feels something twist in his stomach, quiet and painful, as he puts the key in the lock and opens their (his?) door.  
  
Nothing. He sighs, reaches for the light.  
  
A hand comes down on his, slamming it against the wall. “Don't.”  
  
Dean.  
  
“Man,” Sam says, relief warring with fear, “I thought you'd gone. Where's the car?”  
  
Dean takes a step forward. It's just enough for Sam to see his face in the thin, pale moonlight.   
  
He's—frowning isn't the right word. It's like his face has _frozen_ , like there's so much going on under there that his muscles and everything can't keep up. “Sam,” he says, reaching out to grasp Sam's other wrist. “Sam.” It's barely a whisper.  
  
Sam tries to smile and fails completely. “Dean, what's goin' on?”  
  
“I.” But Dean shakes his head, relaxes a bit, and Sam's just about to twist his wrists out of Dean's grip when Dean tenses and pushes Sam into the wall, shoving Sam's pants down and yanking Sam's shirt off.  
  
“Dean, what're you doing,” Sam says weakly, because Dean's wrapping his entire body around Sam, almost _climbing_ him, and it's—God. He's already hard, just from this.  
  
“When you laugh you get this little dimple right by your ear,” Dean says, rough and low. His tongue darts out and caresses the spot. Sam shudders.  
  
For a second Dean stills. Then he adds in a strained whisper, “I'm thankful for that.”  
  
Sam feels his stomach drop straight to his shoes. It's like he's riding the Rebel Yell, taking a hairpin turn in the Rockies, and being dared to eat a centipede all at the same time—like being drugged, fast and heady and dangerous. “Dean.” He licks his lips. “You don't have to.”  
  
Dean's smile is sharp and more than a little bit warm. “I do, though,” he says, nipping Sam's jaw. “You concentrate so fucking hard when you're looking stuff up for a job. It's like your eyes're gonna burn through the computer. And you get these wrinkles in your forehead.” He kisses Sam's eyelids, one after the other, and then Sam's forehead; and Sam's eyes flutter shut because. God. He has to remember this, _all_ of this.  
  
“I'm thankful for that.”  
  
“Dean,” he says again, weakly.   
  
Dean shakes his head. “'m not done,” he says, and his hands stroke down Sam's arms, coming to rest on his hips—and he kneels. “Your body's so beautiful—but it's best when I'm fucking you and you're arching underneath me. Your whole torso just _ripples._ And I am _really_ fucking thankful for that.” A long, soft, hot lick, and Sam's pretty sure his head is about to explode. He fists his hands and thumps his head back against the wall, fighting not to move.  
  
“Your feet are huge and stupid, and I'm thankful for them.” Sam feels his shoes being removed, and then his socks. Delicate little kisses along his toes.  
  
“And I'm thankful for your calves, and I'm thankful for your knees, and that spot behind them that's insanely ticklish.” Kiss, lick, kiss, huge hands caressing him, and Sam can barely _stand_.  
  
“I'm thankful for your ankles.” Hands encircle them. “I'm thankful for your bony hips.” Kisses with toomuchnotenough tongue, _inches_ from his cock. He thrusts almost involuntarily. “I'm thankful for your thighs.” Gentle biting. “And your nipples.” And unexpectedly, Dean reaches up and tweaks them. Sam's entire body jerks, and he feels his cock actually bob against Dean.  
  
Dean smiles against his skin. “Oh, yeah. I'm real thankful for them.”  
  
And then he takes Sam's hands. “I've never met anyone with hands as quick as yours,” he says. “Even when you were tiny, you'd use 'em to get out of your carseat and stuff. And now—Jesus. When you type, when you load a gun, when you do _anything_ I always end up staring.” Dean looks up and catches Sam's eyes with his. “And I'm thankful,” he whispers, sucking Sam's pinky into his mouth.  
  
His tongue runs around each of Sam's fingers, and it's— _Dean_ , kneeling in the darkness, sucking Sam's fingers like he wants to suck Sam's _cock_. By the time he gets to Sam's left hand, Sam's writhing against the wall. “Bed,” he gasps.  
  
Dean stands up and actually entwines his fingers with Sam's, pulling him over.  
  
“Lie down on your stomach,” he orders quietly, nipping Sam's ear.  
  
Sam obeys immediately.  
  
“Your back is fucking gorgeous,” Dean says, and he splays his fingers across it, massaging gently. “When we shower together I want to spend hours just touching it, kissing it.” He dots kisses down Sam's spine, each with just enough tongue to have Sam thrusting against the mattress.   
  
“I love your arms, because I'm pretty sure you could go all caveman on me if you wanted to, toss me over your shoulder and everything.” Hands circling his biceps, pushing him down—kisses, like electricity shooting down Sam's spine. Sam buries his face in the pillow, unable to stop himself from moaning.  
  
“I'm thankful.” It's a shaky whisper, and Sam hears buckles and zippers—and then Dean's pressing himself against Sam, hot and hard and _there._ “I'm thankful,” Dean says again, sliding down—a nose against his back, hands gripping his ass and opening him, and—he's not going to, they never do this, but there's a dark chuckle and Dean says, “And Sammy, I am _damn_ thankful for your ass,” and. Oh God, _tongue,_ circling him, going _in_ , and Sam's not just moaning anymore, he's yelling and thrusting and saying Dean's name over and over again like it's a prayer or a spell or something so monumentally important that words fall impossibly short of describing it.  
  
“So good,” he pants, “Dean. So good. Please don't stop pleasepleasepleaseohGod, harder, oh _God..._ ”  
  
And then, impossibly, Dean pulls away. Sam can't stop himself: he whimpers.  
  
“Roll over,” Dean says, pulling at Sam encouragingly.  
  
Sam obeys, moving heavily—and then his eyes widens because God, he's _never_ seen Dean look this open, this—loving.  
  
“I'm thankful for your cock,” Dean says, and they both laugh a little—or maybe they don't, Sam can't remember, because Dean's leaning down and pressing them together and kissing Sam like they're both about to die.   
  
Then there's a condom and lube and Sam feels himself being stretched, filled, until his eyes are falling closed and he's pushing against Dean roughly, frantically, needing harder, faster, _more_.  
  
“Sam. Open your eyes.”  
  
It's a struggle—more than a struggle—but he obeys. Dean's smiling tenderly, and when his eyes meet Sam's, he reaches out and grips Sam's right hand with his own.  
  
“I'm thankful for _you,_ ” Dean says, and starts to move.  
  
Everything blurs together, slick skin and gentle kisses and whispered promises, Dean's free hand wrapped around his dick, Sam gripping the headboard and shoving back—and through it all, their joined hands, Dean's thumb caressing the inside of Sam's wrist in an impossibly soft touch.  
  
“Love you,” Dean murmurs, thrusting more slowly, more deliberately, angling his hips so that he touches the spot that makes Sam's eyes cross.  
  
“ _Dean._ ” Sam feels beyond desperate—ready to beg, to promise, to do _anything._ “Dean, please, just. _Please._ ”  
  
And then Dean brings their entwined fingers up and strokes Sam's dick—once, twice, until he's coming on both of them, babbling Dean's name over and over again, and Dean's gripping his hips hard enough to bruise and saying _Sammy, Sammy, love you, only you, always,_ and coming inside him.  
  
Dean pulls out and collapses on top of Sam, and that's—really not a bad thing, so Sam just wraps his arms around Dean and holds on tight.  
  
“Love you,” he mutters against Dean's hair.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says after a long moment. “Thanks.”  
  
It's got so many meanings that Sam doesn't know where to start; so instead he just rolls them sideways, his front to Dean's back, and kisses the spot behind Dean's ear.  
  
In the morning Dean'll be grumpy and closed off, and Sam'll snap at him and call him a repressed jerk. But right now...right now, those barriers are down, and Sam's going to stay close to Dean for as long as he can.  
  
_Thank you,_ he thinks, to everyone and no one, as he watches Dean fall asleep.  
  
||  
  
End.  
  
||


End file.
